


Soft

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 18:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale knows how to be evil in all the softest of ways.





	Soft

Aziraphale is the worst thing in all of Creation, Crowley is sure. He floats around on clouds of watermarks or whatever it is books have, carried aloft by adoring ducks, beaming like he invented caramelisation (...he might have), but he’s actually evil. Pure, unadulterated evil. Sin incarnate, and disincarnate, and topped off with a little tartan bow and a dollop of ganache. 

Bastard, is what he is. And several even-more unflattering words. Git. Tosser. Archduke of Annoying Crowley. And fuck, but does he love him.

Right now, the wicked, winged wanker has him bound to a chair. A dining chair. The kind with just wood and nails to keep it up. No soft, pillowy seat. No nice, supportive back. It’s the kind that wants you to sit, eat, and move. It does not hug his butt. It does not warm him. It was cold when he sat down, and now it’s gross in that ‘covered in my ass-crack sweat’ way that makes it stick to his thighs and cleave to him in ways he knows will leave stupid, pink marks.

His legs are splayed, bound to the chair-legs. His clothing long since gone, except (annoyingly) for his socks. His toes wrinkle in the itchy fabric, and he turns cloth-blinded eyes towards the sounds his angel makes.

It doesn’t matter that he _wants_ this. That the very thought of it makes his mouth dry and his dick hard as a diamond fucking drill bit. No. Just because he comes so hard he nearly blacks out when the angel uses and abuses him… it does _not_ make him any less of a bastard.

Aziraphale paces, slow and lazy. The layers of finery he’s still draped in sheer against one another, making his path clear. He’s not touched Crowley in what feels like a million years. He’s not laid a finger on him, and his treacherous cock only bounces that much harder in his lap. 

Please, angel. Please. Fucking get on with it.

The tickle beneath his nose, above his lip, is enough to make him catch his breath and inhale half of the feather… before it’s pulled back. He squirms his whole face to shed the sensation, and then hisses like an over-wrought radiator as the fronds touch the curve of his ear. Trail down his cheek. Brush across his collar bone.

Bastard. Prat. Pillock. Tease.

Crowley does not whine, and will not whine. He seals his lips like a licked envelope, and scowls in the general direction of the hand that refuses to give.

Aziraphale does not talk. 

Which. Kills him. They _always_ talk. About **everything**, and the silence is like a sentence. It hammers onto his head like the feather resolutely does _not_, and he feels the gnawing, clawing mess in his ribs threatening to break out <s>and beg</s>.

The feather moves. Touches light and teasing where he wants… more. He wants the slide-tug of fingertips. The wet gift of a tongue. He wants the scratch of nails and teeth. He wants the pinch, pull, tug, twist. Over his nipples, perking them to nearly crying. Over his ribs, finding each one in turn. Faint, and horrid. Simply horrid. He doesn’t want _soft_. He wants _hard_. 

He wants it so hard his skin welts where he’s touched. So hard it drowns out the screaming in his head. So hard that all he can feel is where they touch. Where hands twist, where bodies meet. Wants to choke until he cries on his cock. Wants to be used so thoroughly that when the restraints go, so does he. Wants the chair to creak and groan as the angel rides him, fucks him, fingers him, jerks him… anything! Anything but this! Soft is for after, when he’s too exhausted to object. When he’s gulping in air to survive. When he’s cold and shaking, drained of all his fire (hell and otherwise).

It’s not for _now_.

Sightlessly, he looks up. Pleading with an angry mouth, with a nose that wrinkles in disgust. He wants his whole self whited out in rage and ecstasy, not - not so quiet that the only thing he can hear is their breathing and his thoughts. 

That was not the Arrangement.

The Arrangement was for…

The feather is gone, but now there’s more. A whole flurry of them, crossing his chest. The angel has his wings out, and he’s caressing his chest with slow, loving strokes. Crowley lets out a keening, lowing sound of distress, the chair rocking onto two legs and back. It’s so shockingly intimate, and he - he can’t respond! He’s bound down, unable to even look his angel in the eyes, and he’s not able to… to… _give back_. 

Oh, stars, what the HELL has happened to him? Why is it so difficult to be… selfish? To let himself be touched, to just… be. To be the focus of this attention, to… feel the flickers of tickles that lick over his sides. The way his belly concaves away from the leading edges. The silky wrongness of polluting an angel’s wings with the leaking fluids of very-Human-bodied interest… 

Up and up like ethereal fingers, both wings working in unison. They basket-weave around his cock, like gasps of air, and Crowley nearly screams at it. Dragging, poking, teasing. Nudging the foreskin up, and then letting it fall back down. Playing him like a four piece fucking orchestra of lust, making him bead out in sweat and grind his balls into the chair. Suddenly, the chair is his best friend. Friction, and an edge of pain from the rigidity. A counterpoint to the fluffy touching that threatens to break his mind.

He won’t beg. He won’t. He--

“AAAHH!”

One primary feather, toying at his slit. Threatening to nudge inside his shaft, to sound him. He would know it isn’t really possible if he was in his right mind, but the concept is--

“That’s right, my dear. That’s right.”

There’s no hard. There’s no sharp. No yank, tug, bite, pluck, force. No thrust, no drag, no slam. But he’s spurting, hot and shameful and salty and he can’t help it. He can’t stop it. He can’t hold the rolling pleasure back.

He’s there for long moments, until a kindly hand slips the blindfold from his jammed-shut eyes. He lets his head be tilted up, and opens them just in time to see his angel lift the sticky feathers to his lips and start to lap them clean.

Crowley has nothing left in his balls. It doesn’t stop him peaking, all over again. 

Fuck.

Maybe soft isn’t so bad, after all.


End file.
